


Missed Calls

by AngelRadio (BeautyGraceOuterSpace)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Disordered Eating, Flagstaff, Gen, Implied Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Panic Attacks, Teen Dean Winchester, Teenchesters, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-24 21:58:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16183988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyGraceOuterSpace/pseuds/AngelRadio
Summary: He’d left messages for his dad, each more frantic than the last as his worry increased, but every call took him straight to voicemail. Either the phone was dead, or his dad was ignoring his calls. Either way, he wasn’t going to get help there. Not anytime soon. Flagstaff.





	Missed Calls

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic for the Supernatural fandom. I wrote it on a whim one day and decided I really liked how it turned out! Enjoy!

He couldn’t stop shaking. 

The map he’d been staring at, spread hastily over the rickety table, was blurry from his exhaustion and with each passing moment it was getting harder to fight off the panic that had been clawing at his chest.

The motel room was a mess, but he couldn’t be bothered to care.

Three days. Three fucking days and he still had no idea where the hell Sammy was.

He’d puke if there was anything left in his stomach, but he hadn’t spared a thought for food since he came home from the store and found Sam missing. He hadn’t even bothered putting the groceries away, and it had sat spoiling on the counter since. Just as well...he didn’t need any incentive to vomit again; as it was, his abs were aching terribly from the recurring dry heaves that kept happening.

He’d left messages for his dad, each more frantic than the last as his worry increased, but every call took him straight to voicemail. Either the phone was dead, or his dad was ignoring his calls. Either way, he wasn’t going to get help there. Not anytime soon.

With a shaky sigh, he lowered himself into the nearest chair rubbing his palms together anxiously as he wet his lips with his tongue. Bringing his hands up to cover his nose and mouth, he took a long breath in and tried to refocus himself. He could do this. He just… wasn’t trying hard enough.

Dragging his hands down his chin, he threw his head back and exhaled heavily through his nose.

_Goddamn it, Sam._

He forced himself to his feet, clutching blindly at the table as spots appeared in his vision. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he returned his attention to the map, scouring the lines for streets he’d missed, somewhere he could search.

And that’s when he heard the rumble of his dad’s truck pulling up outside.

Closing his eyes with a grimace, he fought back the sudden urge to cry.

He was out of time.

_Shit._

 

* * *

  

John unlocked the door to the motel with his key, knocking for Dean to undo the chain and readied himself to recite their chosen password. He was surprised when the door opened immediately and without a word from either of his sons.

“Dean, what--” he began, but his eldest was already stalking back into the room. Closing the door quickly behind him, and taking care not to mess up the salt lines, John followed, turning the lock and refastening the chain. “What the hell, Dean? You know better than to--”

Dean cut him off with a quiet, “Dad-- sir, I--” but he trailed off before he could say more.

Instantly concerned, John moved quickly to his son’s side, putting a hand firmly on his shoulder as he ducked his head to meet Dean’s eye. “Hey, what’s going on?” he asked urgently. Then, with a spark of realization, “Where’s Sammy?”

Dean’s shoulders hitched under his hand. “Sir--”

“Where’s Sammy, Dean?” he repeated more sternly.

“Dad--” Dean tried again, his voice breaking slightly on the short word.

Losing patience as fear overwhelmed him, he released Dean and hurried into the room the boys had been sharing, calling out, “Sam?!”

Dean waiting until the sounds of his dad rifling through their rumpled possessions ceased before taking a bracing breath and stepping hesitantly forward.

“Dad,” he croaked, “I’ve looked _everywhere_ \--”

John froze, eyeing his son critically. “What do you mean, ‘you’ve looked everywhere’?”

“I-- Sammy just-- I went to the store, f-for groceries and stuff and-- when I came back he was just--”

“You left him here alone?” he asked incredulously. “Dean, you know better--- I taught you better than--”

“I know, sir, I’m sorry-- I-- he was pissed, and I was trying to give him some space to cool off so--”

“So you left your 12 year old brother alone in a motel room for god knows how long unsupervised and came back to find him _gone?”_ he growled, hearing the accusation and the hypocrisy in his words even as he said them.

“I didn’t think he’d--”

“How long has he been missing?”

“I--”

“How long, Dean?!” he yelled, watching as Dean hunched over, curling in to himself.

Finally, Dean murmured, “Three days.”

John let out a huff of hysterical laughter as he rubbed at his stubble with his hand. “Three days,” he repeated as a disbelieving smirk built on his face. “Three-- three goddamn days and you didn’t think to _call me?”_

“Dad, I--”

“God damn it, Dean!” John roared, turning suddenly away from his eldest to slam his fist on the countertop, rattling the dishes piled there from days prior, from the last meal Dean had prepared for Sammy before he vanished. Dean did his best not to jump at the noise, chest heaving where he stood as his throat tightened. “Three days-- he could be _dead_ , damnit!”

He regretted it the instant he spoke it. He turned just in time to see Dean’s eyes widen slightly before he stumbled quickly into the bathroom, not even having the presence of mind to close the door before painful sounding retching filled the space.

John covered his eyes with his hand, the other resting at his hip as he took measured breaths in an effort to calm himself. When he felt he could speak without shouting, he cautiously made his way to the bathroom, sighing heavily as he took in Dean’s appearance.

Sixteen. Dean was sixteen fucking years old, and he’d never looked younger than he did at that moment, gaze trained on the ground, hands shaking in fists tangled in his short hair as he knelt collapsed in front of the toilet, t-shirt hanging off of him-- _damn, he’d lost weight again_ \-- chest heaving with shaky, pained breaths as he body fought to expel something that wasn’t there.

He wasn’t being fair. He wasn’t being fair to Dean at all.

The kid was obviously sick with worry, had been for a while.

“Dean,” he began apologetically, rubbing Dean’s back through the thin, worn out t-shirt as he rode out the spasms.

“Sir, I tried to call you,” Dean croaked as soon as he could speak, “I swear--” he tried to continue but was interrupted by another round of dry heaves.

“It’s ok, buddy, I gotcha,” he soothed, forcing down his own worry for his youngest. “It’s gonna be ok.”

When Dean finally stopped heaving, gasping for air on the cold tile floor, John helped him to his feet. He guided his shaking son back into the main room and onto the patchy couch where he left him to sit as he fetched a glass of water from the tap.

Pressing the drink into Dean’s hand, he gently tapped the bottom of the glass with two fingers.

“Dad--” Dean began, but John cut him off.

“Shut up and drink. We’ll talk in a second.”

Dean obeyed, gulping at the cool water as his breathing calmed.

Finally, John took the empty glass from his grip and placed it on the floor next to them, moving to retrieve one of the chairs from the table so he could sit facing his son.

As he reached for one of the high backed wooden chairs, he saw the map spread out across the tabletop, held down by rocks in the corners and covered with ink marks of circles and x-es marking the spots Dean had searched. He’d scoured the whole damn town. Twice, by the looks of it.

With a sigh, he spun the chair around and dropped into it, watching as Dean’s hands shook and trembled in his lap.

“Dad, I’m so sorry--”

“Hey, hey, listen to me,” John said, stopping Dean’s frantic apologies as he wrapped a large hand around each of his biceps, feeling his son tremble beneath his grip. “Listen,” he repeated, giving him a small shake to catch his attention when Dean didn’t meet his eye. “We’re going to find him, do you hear me?” Dean kept his gaze averted, chin quivering as he tried desperately not to cry. “Do you hear? Hey, look at me.”

Swallowing hard past the lump in his throat, Dean croaked out, “I hear you, sir. But--”

“Nope. No buts, Dean, look at me.” Dean dragged his eyes slowly to meet his father’s. “We’re going to find him. End of story.”

Dean nodded, a jerky acceptance of his father's word because of course he could find Sammy. 

Of course he could. 

And when John announced that they were heading to Flagstaff not two hours later, almost positive that's where their youngest was hiding, it was all Dean could do not to cry. 

 

 

* * *

 

_27 missed calls. 14 new messages._

 

_“Dad, call me as soon as you get this-- please, sir, it’s important.”_

 

_“Dad, please-- it’s… I need your help.”_

 

_“Dad, please, it’s about Sammy.”_

 

_“Please call me.”_

 

_“Dad, please.”_


End file.
